Your fingers have dipped in starlight, and
My eyes glow like the moon
And what you've painted on me, your canvas,
Has made my every nerve end twitch
Trembling with anxious, drunk-love excitement.
Sandman's heavy seeds have been sown,
And weigh down eyelids with their tempting fruit.
My fingers are dimmer
And I softly worry your shirt between them
Staring at a space behind my eyes

you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.

I want to write good poetry again, but I cant seem to make it come.
I hardly have the energy to lift my arms or take a single step forward,
if only for the chains I wear
of lace, and tied down with heavy frocks.
The moment I reach for a pen
my dress begins to slip and I must grasp and fumble.
This masquerade is growing old
and my mask is wearing thin enough to see through.
I want to speak,
cry out and scream my soul
but the red they've painted across my mouth
is worse than any gag, and ribbons streaming
from my hair snag on the thorns and rocks of my path.
The weight which hangs, draping over my body is not of iron or steel,
Yet still I outgrow these bonds, and only now
realise they are bonds and weary of my restriction.
They are bonds I no longer wish to wear, as
with every moment I live weighted down
the sky in my eyes grows clouded with fire and smoke.
Any inspirations to paint are lost to the thread which hangs from my eyes.
Were I to try, the ability to sing would be choked away,
sounds stolen by the ever pressing knife.
But
my only chance to escape this seems to lie in the blade's threat, to sing
with all the fire and rage in my soul
and bow back before it catches my mind as prize.
I'm no doll to be toyed with
And I'm sick of playing make believe.
I think it's high time the clock struck midnight.
It's time to burn the dress.

I am a cold creature and cannot speak.
The words solidify before they reach my mouth
And I choke on my own breath.
I am a cold creature made of ice and bone,
Stiffened by harsh winds thrown against me
Yet fragile to a breeze’s grazing touch.
I am a cold creature with numbed feeling and a distant gaze
And cataracts chilled to cool perfection,
Floating on murky brown pools of exhaustion.
I am a cold creature whose heart and eyes once held flame and fire,
yet there is still an ember’s glow.

Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-

In a glade the size of a potted plant,
On a blanket the size of a napkin,
There sat a pair, the queerest of all,
Pieris and little Rotkaepptchen.

One was a goldfish,
But not just a goldfish.
The other was a plant,
But not just any plant.
(He was a fern, get it right.)

These two had a mission only they could complete,
The Quest for the glorious NumNums.

The legend of NumNums
Was told far and wide,
And all NumNum lovers
Wanted them inside.
(Their tummies that is, don’t be inappropriate)

ANYWAY,
The NumNums were glorious,
Such a yummy treat,
Until they were poisoned,
That wasn’t so neat.

Pieris and Rotkaepptchen,
The task now at hand,
Set off on their journey,
Through strange, distant lands.

They navigated bedrooms,
They slid down the halls,
They were chased by vacuums,
And trapped by LEGO® walls!

This impossible mission continued,
Until, at last, success!
They found the trail’s end!
What joy! What bliss!
(Huzzah)

Now all that was required
Was to figure out the poison.
So they, without the antidote,
Could eat NumNums again

What a task that would be,
What work, what a chore!
Yet near the store of NumNums,
Upon the ***** floor,

They found a scrap of parchment,
With clues inscribed in black,
To reverse the candy’s poison
And bring them NumNums back
(Hollah!)

Into the woods they ventured,
They searched day and night
To find the precious antidote
And to relieve their plight.

For days, the land they scoured,
For ingredients rare and odd
Until they finally saw it,
Held captive by the frog!

The gleam of silica crystals,
The shine of his mucus
His curious croak was answered
With a meek “Help us.”

“Why should I?” he croaked again,
Staring them down drearily.
“I know not your quest,
I’ve only hints at the best.”

“Then surely you can help,
Surely you can try!”
Little Pieris yelped,
Looking about to cry.

“Don’t worry my friend!”
Rotkaeppchen declared
“For I’m he cannot resist
our plea, and most surely will assist.”

“Then, my dears, I solemnly swear
To help you in your need.
For here, this little draught of pear,
Will help you to succeed!”

And then, procuring a vessel
of the clearest glass
The wise old toad
Cleared his throat,
And promptly passed some gas.

“Excuse me,” he rumbled.
“Excuse me for that faux pas.”
And then he amphibiously
Handed over the pear draught glass

“Egads!” the two exclaimed,
Taking the glass cautiously.
But at last! They had the pear
And thanked him graciously.

At long last they had the cure,
The pear to fix the poison.
They took it back to the glade,
Where their lips they proceeded to moisten.

And that, my friends, is the last of our tale,
The tale of Pieris and Rotkappchen
The daring elves of yore.
With NumNums three,
Under the TumTum tree
They lunched and brunched once more.
And now, we’ve reached the end.

Oh, my dear underwear
Why must I put you there?
Helping me be all flirty,
Glad you don’t mind getting *****.

Sometimes lacy, what a trip!
Sometimes plain, sometimes ripped,
Sometimes ****, sometimes stained,
You’re just one of everything!

Dearest underwear, your fate is set!
How on Earth do you let
Me go about and use you so carelessly?
Think about it is simply ghastly!

Oh sweet, sweet underwear, you’re the best!
Now go ahead and take a rest.
Go get washed! Go get well,
Before again your use is swell.

Oh my dear underwear, I’m sure you’ll understand
Why I put you there in the end!